Warmth
by Coconono
Summary: With Jack in failing health following the sinking, Rose struggles to keep the young couple afloat in New York. An opportunity presents itself from Rose's past, but at what cost?
1. Chapter 1

1. The Hearth

The Hearth Cafe was located on a quaint, dusty New York street and frequented by rushing businessmen in the mornings, posh young women having tea in the afternoons, and restless night owls well into the evenings. The 900-square-foot wooden building was owned by the elderly Dennis Graham on paper but ostensibly operated by his younger sister, Meredith, and her husband, Carmichael Flannels.

Meredith Flannels hired three women from the Titanic recovery shelter in late April of 1912. The shelter had been set up just three blocks from the cafe, with the purpose of accommodating displaced Titanic survivors, offering sources of recuperation, and helping the most needy find food, work, and safety. Meredith had asked the shelter to send over three willing workers-one to be trained as the cook's assistant, one to help serve, and one to wash dishes in the back.

Meredith would never forget the morning the three women arrived at the Hearth doorstep. Two were sisters in their late twenties. Both had lost their youngest brother and one her husband to the Atlantic, and now the two of them were attempting to scrounge together enough money to pay for the train tickets to Ontario, where an uncle or older cousin or some-such relation had agreed to take in the mourning family. Both would prove to be hardened, efficient workers, with rough hands and dull. blue-rimmed eyes. The younger, unwed sister served her customers quickly, rarely making small talk but handling each order impeccably. She left for Canada by June. The older sister was beloved by the cook for her baking talents, and her signature blueberry crumble was specially requested by customers until August, when she too traveled with her two young children to reunite with her family in Ontario. Only the third woman still remained. And it was the third woman who made that morning so memorable for Meredith-only the third woman whose haunted, gray-blue eyes would forever live in Meredith's memory. She could still remember her gaunt cheeks, the slim body drowning in an oversized wool coat, and the hair-the limp wavy hair as red as fire.

Meredith had asked to speak with each one individually, laying out place settings, coffee, and day-old sweet bread for the women to eat at the counter while they waited their turn. It was still an hour before the cafe opened, and the empty kitchens at the back of the cafe were lit by the pink-tinged light of early morning. The woman with haunted eyes and red hair went last.

"Hello, dear, come on back with me," Meredith had said, leading her to two stools placed in the kitchen.

"Thank you."

"I know you've been through a lot in the last few weeks, but I'd really like to get to know all my workers a little better to make sure they're well-suited for the positions I have available. What is your name, dear?"

"Rose."

"Rose. Such a lovely name. It matches your beautiful hair."

The woman smiled faintly, and again said, "Thank you."

"Rose, I'm Mrs. Meredith Flannels, and I'll be your direct supervisor here at the Hearth Cafe. Mr. Flannels will also be your boss, although he handles more of the business aspects of the cafe-placing orders and balancing the payrolls. We have three positions available: I need a waitress, an assistant for my cook, and a dishwasher. Do you have a preference?"

"Yes. I'd like to be the dishwasher."

Meredith was surprised by the answer. "Are you sure? Though it may not sound like it, it's very difficult work." She stared down at Rose's soft, lily-white hands. "You need to have strong arm muscles for really scouring the dishes, and the back room gets fairly hot. It's a tiring job, and you'll be on your feet from sunup to sundown."

"That's fine."

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather be a waitress? A pretty girl like you would take home quite a bit in tips."

"If it's alright with you, I'd really rather be a dishwasher. I'm a very hard worker, and I promise not to give you any trouble."

"I'm sure you won't, dear. Tell me Rose, have you ever worked in a cafe or restaurant before?"

"No, I'm sorry, I haven't."

"Is this your first job?"

"Yes." Rose's soft-spoken answers were polite but painfully guarded. Meredith realized that she wanted to reveal as little about herself as possible.

"I see. And for how long are you planning to live in the shelter?"

"Until my husband and I can afford to pay for an apartment near by."

"Oh, you're married! You look like such a young little thing I never dreamed that you've already been at the altar. Is your husband looking for work as well?"

"No, he was recently hired in a glass mill. But . . . ummm . . . well, the sinking took a toll on his health, and I'd really prefer it if he didn't have to work so hard or so many hours."

"That's very thoughtful of you. And do you have any children?"

"No, we only got married very recently."

"Okay, Rose, you really seem like a lovely girl, and I think you'll fit in just beautifully here at the Hearth Cafe. Why don't you try out washing dishes for a few days, and we'll see how you like it. You'll start today-we open in about half an hour. You'll need to tie up that hair and leave your coat in the break room. I'll get you an apron so you don't splash soap all over your pretty dresses."

"Thank you."


	2. Chapter 2

2. Henry Flannels

Meredith was right. Dishwashing was hard work. Rose's wrists hurt, her feet hurt, and her back hurt from leaning forward to reach the sink. But there was a reason she had chosen it above the other two positions: It left Rose entirely alone. She didn't have to interact with anyone. Dirty dishes arrived on an open sill to her right, and she deposited clean dishes on the sill in front of her. She could hear the noise and chatter of the kitchens, even heard the gentle murmurs of the customers eating in front, but for the most part Rose didn't have to speak, or smile, or think about the present. Her mind was free to wander. For all she knew, the sink filled with scalding water by itself. The dishes scrubbed themselves. Like time, daily motions merely flew past her, with only the aches in her body at night to tell her that she had, in fact, just finished another honest day's work.

It was three days before anyone thought to ask her her last name. Rose was helping Meredith's fourteen-year-old son, Henry, wipe down the counters after hours when he suddenly turned and asked, "How do you like working at the cafe, Miss . . .?"

His voice trailed off. It would have been disrespectful to refer to her as "Rose," but the issue of her surname had never before come up. Rose's rag stopped mid-swipe, and she looked at Henry. "Dawson. Mrs. Dawson. And so far I like it here very much." A faint smile traced her lips for the remainder of the clean-up. Mrs. Dawson. She'd expected to stumble over her name. Perhaps accidentally say the wrong one. But it had rolled off her tongue flawlessly, naturally. She loved the sound of it, in fact.

In the coming weeks Henry became Rose's closest friend at the Hearth. He usually came by in the late afternoons to help clear tables, dry glasses and cups for her, and finally help close up the cafe. Henry immediately liked the new dishwasher, because she was young and very pretty, and sometimes she hummed while she worked without realizing it. He found the tunes sweet and very lovely. At first, Rose, merely liked that Henry referred to her as "Mrs. Dawson." His big brown eyes, chestnut curls, and cherubic rosy cheeks made him look younger than his years, and something of his softness and naivete soon filled Rose with a renewed hope and pleasure. That something so innocent and beautiful still existed in the world made her smile softly despite herself.

"What's Mr. Dawson like?" Henry once asked, as they were both in back, Rose washing and Henry drying.

"Genuine, and very kind. He works all day even though he's sick."

"Why is he sick?"

"Well, I think it's because he was very cold for a very long time."

"Oh. Didn't he have a coat?"

"No, unfortunately, Henry, my husband wasn't lucky enough to have a coat."

Henry was silent for a moment. "Is Mr. Dawson funny?"

Rose broke into a grin, "Yes, he is. Why?"

"Because you always say you think I'm funny. I think it's something very important to you."

"Yes, I guess it is. But you're funny in different ways. I think you're funny because you don't realize how innocent you are. Jack's funny because he loves to hear me laugh. That, or he gets frustrated and flustered, and for whatever reason I find it hysterical when that happens."

"Why does he get frustrated?"

"He's been trying to teach me to cook, the poor man."

"Do you think I'll ever meet him? Why doesn't he ever come by and see you here?"

"Well, he works very long hours, but I could ask him to come sometime in the evenings. If we're closing up, you can meet him."

"Will he like me?"

Rose shot him a mischievous look, "If you behave."


	3. Chapter 3

3. Together

Rose preferred to work after hours on weekdays, helping the Flannels close the cafe rather than coming home to a dark, empty apartment and waiting for Jack to arrive. It was Jack who brought life into the cramped, one-bedroom space. It was Jack's smile that lit up every room, Jack's arms that warmed the stagnant, chilly air.

Besides, Rose was perpetually forgetting her key on the bedside table, and it was easier for Jack to simply prop the door open for her once he got home at around eight. Rose hated walking through the begrimed, shadowed hallways of their apartment building, smelling the mildew, rot, grease, spices, and collective body odors wafting through poorly ventilated building. But she loved seeing that small crack of light once she turned the corner. That was THEIR apartment, right there. It was Jack, her Jack, who lit the lamps that made the light spill out into the hall. And it would be her Jack who hugged her close the moment she walked through the door.

Clutching a cloth bag filled with leftovers from the cafe against her stomach, she pushed the door open with her left hip and called out, "Jack? Jack, I'm home."

Nothing.

She dropped the bag and ran to the bedroom.

Empty.

Frantic now, she ran to the bathroom. The door was locked. She pressed against it, "Jack? Jack, are you there?" She listened, her heart pounding in panic. And then she heard the coughing. Jack's cough scared her to death, quite frankly. It made her own throat ache. No cough should rattle like that. No cough should sound so . . . wet.

Pale and shaking, Jack eventually opened the bathroom door and stepped into the bedroom, still holding the pillow he'd grabbed from the bed to muffle the sound of his coughs. Rose pressed against him, cradling his face in her hands, "Please say you're okay."

"I'm alright, really." His voice sounded raspy and brittle, but the smile was reassuring. "I'm sorry I scared you. It's just, I know you don't like the sound . . ."

"Oh God, Jack, who cares if I don't like the sound? I don't like it because I've never heard a cough like that. It's not right. There's something wrong, and that God-forsaken doctor won't do anything." She took the pillow and lay down with it on the bed, burying her face and pouting into the linens. "All he does is prescribe that horrid black liquid. I think it's squid blood, I really do." Jack couldn't help but laugh as he sat down beside her, "Is that so?"

"Yes. What else makes it so thick and black?"

He stroked her hair, "Why are you complaining? You're not the one who swallows a tablespoon of it down every morning. And I think it works, maybe. I haven't been coughing at work as much."

Rose peered through her hair at him, "Really?"

"Yes, really. The foreman threatened to fire me if I did. He says I'll get all the men sick, and production will halt. I tried explaining that it's not contagious, not like a cold or a flu, but I don't think he gets it."

"Quit, Jack."

"You know I can't."

"What if I asked to serve and brought home tips as well?"

"We still couldn't survive. Not if we want to keep this apartment."

"God Jack, why is it so hard? No one ever told me it was so hard to make money. And it's not just low wages-everything is so expensive! I never even realized. I work and work, and they give me my little slip of a paycheck, and then it's all gone. The grocer and the landlord and the doctor and the store clerks and everyone just take it right out of my hand the moment I get it."

"Uh huh," Jack brought his hand to the back of her neck and began massaging the sore muscles. "Did you bring home any food?"

Rose's face lit up, and she sat up beside him. "Yes."

Jack followed her into the front room, where she retrieved her cloth bag and began pulling the items out, one by one. "Just a little bit of milk, because I think we're running low. A cinnamon roll, made just this morning. Some cheese. Deli meat, but I forget what kind. And Henry brought me an apple-it's yellow, just like you like." She tossed him the apple, and they sat down to eat at their rickety kitchen table.

"Let's split the apple."

"No, just take it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, every time you cut something in half, I always get a giant half, and you end up with a little sliver."

"But Henry brought it just for you."

Rose rolled her eyes, "I'm sure he'll bring another tomorrow."

Jack smiled, "Nice kid."

"Yes. He thinks you should stop by the cafe."

"Does he now?"

"He wants to meet you."

"To see his competition?"

They both laughed. "It's no competition, Jack. Not with all the shiny apples Henry brings me anyway."

"So apples are the way to a woman's heart. Who knew?"

"Will you come, though?"

"When?"

"After work? Tomorrow maybe, if you're not tired." She avoided his gaze. She didn't need to say it, that they were both always tired, and tomorrow night would be no exception.

"Sure, I'd love to see where you work. We can walk home together."


	4. Chapter 4

4. Strength  
It killed Rose that she and Jack couldn't sleep in the same bed at night, but his coughing often became so bad that it woke her, and with her long hours at the cafe, she couldn't afford to lose precious moments of sleep. Instead, she curled under the thin cotton blankets on the bed, while Jack slept on the couch in the front room, wrapped in scarves and woolen blankets as the doctor ordered. The walls were thin, however, and she could still hear the coughs he tried so desperately to muffle.  
The arrangement shattered a part of Jack as well. The way he saw it, Rose gave up everything for him: her home, her comfort, her mother, and seventeen precious years of life had all been relinquished so that she could stay with him. She traded it all for a filthy, small apartment, a job that robbed her of all her time and energy, and a man who couldn't even hold her in his arms at night. On the ship he had been so sure that he was doing the right thing. It seemed obvious that the best decision Rose could make would be to leave her old life behind. But now he wasn't so sure. If only Rose had stayed, she'd never have been in that frigid water. She would have stayed on the lifeboat. She wouldn't be cold or tired or hungry, ever. She would have everything she wanted and deserved-everything he wanted to give her so badly it made him sick. Why did she have to love him so much? Why did she try so hard to reassure him?  
"Jack, you don't understand," she'd once told him, soon after they moved into the apartment. "I like this life. I LIKE working. Alright, maybe not the day-to-day menial aspects of it, but I love the IDEA that I can work and contribute to our survival. You don't understand what it's like to be a woman. My whole life, I was taught that my only option was to find a man. When my family lost its money, finding a suitable husband seemed like my only priority, my only form of hope. But going out into the world and earning my keep and bringing home my own money-you have no idea what that means for me. I'm not just some dainty little trophy placed on your mantle for decoration. I don't have to rely on other people for my survival. I love you. I want you in my life forever. But you were the one who taught me that I control my own destiny. You taught me that I possess power, and free will, and . . . and strength! No one ever suggested that I was strong before."  
The following evening, however, it took all JACK's strength to walk the extra mile past their apartment and to the Hearth Cafe, fulfilling his promise to drop by after work. His hair was matted, his clothes dusty, and he was shivering in his thin coat, but the gentle jingle of chimes greeted him as he swept open the cafe's wooden door frame and stepped inside. Several customers were still sipping coffees at the counter. A woman in a brown apron turned as he entered and smiled brightly, "Take a seat," she said. "You look like you could use a warm cup in your hands. What would you like?"  
"Oh, I'm looking for my wife, actually. Rose asked me to come by today and see her."  
The woman's smile broadened. "So you're Mr. Dawson! Well come on, come on, sit down! Let me get you some tea and a nice big slice of pie. Rose is still in back, wiping down the sink. She'll be right out in a second." To Jack's surprise, the woman came around the counter and physically ushered him into a cushioned chair at a table, patting his back before crossing to the back of the cafe and calling, "Rose! Mr. Dawson's here!" Jack watched as the woman came back to him and gave him a warm hug. "She never told me you would be so handsome! And young! You're SO young. Do babies like you two really get married these days?" Jack smiled, and the woman rambled on without letting him speak. "And, my word, you're nearly as thin and pale as she is. Here, I'll cut you an EXTRA big slice." She immediately returned to her post and began preparing Jack's meal.  
"Thank you, I really appreciate it. Are you Mrs. Flannels?"  
In the process of pouring boiling water into a cup, embarrassment flashed across Meredith's face, and she nodded yes. "Did I forget to mention that? Yes, I'm Mrs. Flannels. And I have to say, I absolutely adore having Rose work here. You really have something special on your hands, Mr. Dawson."  
"I'm glad you think so. I feel the same way. Rose talks about you all the time as well, raving about this place and how kind everyone has been to her. You have no idea what a great peace of mind that is to me. It would kill me inside if I even suspected that Rose disliked her job, but thankfully that's not the case."  
"No, it definitely isn't." Rose entered through the back archway, immediately walking over to embrace Jack warmly. "I'm so glad you could make it," she murmured.  
"Anytime."Jack studied Rose with a smile. He had never seen Rose still in her work apron and her hair pinned back. "You look so nice."  
"And hardworking?"  
"Very."  
"Here, hand this to Mr. Dawson and introduce yourself," Meredith told her son Henry, who had just emerged from the kitchens, handing him a plate of peach pie and steaming cup of black tea.  
"I'm Henry," he said simply, setting Jack's food in front of him.  
Jack smiled in reply, "I know. Rose has told me a lot about you."  
"She has?"  
"Oh yeah, all the time. She says you really liven up her day."  
A rosy flush warmed Henry's cheeks and traveled to the tips of his ears. He seemed to struggle for a reply.  
Meredith, however, approached at that moment, carrying a second plate and cup, which she placed across from Jack, "Here Rose, you're done for the day. I haven't seen you eat all day, and you deserve a nice warm treat with your husband. Come on Henry, let's start stacking up the extra chairs and sweeping up."  
The remaining customers finished their drinks, paid, and left. Jack and Rose ate slowly, murmuring and laughing softly to one another.  
Meredith carefully swept her broom across the floor, stealing glances at the happy couple-tired, but happy. Henry collected the plates, cups, and forks once they finished, and Meredith quickly held out her arm when she saw Jack reach into his pocket to draw out his wallet.  
"No, no, this is all on the house."  
"Oh, I couldn't ask for that," he protested.  
"Mr. Dawson, please, I absolutely INSIST. Rose is such an excellent worker and speaks so highly of you. Besides, our tips have been absolutely incredible ever since she started working here. Who knows, maybe customers really respond to how sparkling clean she gets the dishes?"  
Jack paused and looked over to Rose, who squarely met his gaze without altering the blank expression on her face. "Yes, perhaps they do." Jack blinked, then smiled warmly at Meredith. "Thank you so much for your generosity-it's something we really appreciate."  
Rose and Jack walked out into the cold night as the Flannels locked up their cafe for the night. Jack put his arm across Rose's shoulders and pulled her to him as they walked briskly, the thin soles of their shoes slapping against the pavement.  
"Have you been stuffing the tip jar every night?" He asked softly.  
"Yes."  
When Jack remained quiet, Rose glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and asked, "Are you angry?"  
"No, why would I be?"  
"I don't know. It's just . . . it's HIS money, and I know you don't want to use it. What else am I supposed to do with it?"  
"Rose, if you want to use the money, don't let me stop you."  
"No! No, Jack, I don't want to use it anymore than you do. But . . . well, it seems stupid to just waste it, and its not as if he's ever done anything bad to the Flannels. They wouldn't care. In fact, I sort of like the thought of the money going to people who actually appreciate it. And Mrs. Flannels has been SO generous. At least this way I don't feel like a complete charity case."  
Again, Jack remained silent, and as they neared their apartment building, Rose didn't push him to say anything. Finally, of his own accord, he quietly murmured, "You can say his name around me, if you want to."  
"What?"  
"You can say it," he said, louder. "Cal Hockley," Jack carefully enunciated. "There, I just did it, and you can too, if you really want to. Cal. Cal Hockley. Cal Hockley's money. You took the money Cal Hockley left in his coat and are slowly but surely giving it to the Flannels as a thank-you for their kindness. There's nothing wrong with that."  
"It doesn't bother you?"  
"No, Rose, it doesn't. Unlike him, I'm not going to try and control your actions."  
"Thank you."  
Together, they entered the lobby and began the long ascent to their apartment in the elevator-less building. As their tired limbs trudged up the steps Jack said, "I think I've had a really good day. Would you mind if I slept with you in the bed?"  
Rose smiled, happiness immediately reaching her eyes. "Yes! I always want you there." Jack smiled back at her, and, teasingly, she hastily added, "Just as long as you aren't planning to snore."


	5. Luxuries

There were only a few indulgences Jack and Rose allowed themselves during the early months of their marriage. The first was the simple, slightly tarnished gold bands around each of their fingers, bought second-hand with Jack's first paycheck. Rose had insisted on them. In the midst of all the suffering and pain they had just witnessed, she was perfectly fine with the utter lack of ceremony and celebration that accompanied their wedding day. She still had vivid memories of the elaborate plans the fiasco of her wedding to Cal was supposed to be, so she never protested when she and Jack merely signed a marriage license in City Hall. Anything more would have merely reminded her of their utter lack of family or friends-of the fact that it truly was just the two of them struggling to survive in this cold, dead world of rent payments and long hours on her feet. But the wedding bands were not up for debate. She needed this tangible object to officially announce to the world that she was indeed Mrs. Jack Dawson. She was no longer a carefree spoiled school girl, her entire life dictated by the rules of propriety, by her governess, by her teachers, her mother, or the men in her life who tried to control her. She was a married woman with a will of her own. She had married for love. She had Jack's undying devotion. And she wanted a symbol to represent all this to the world.

The second indulgence was their Sunday afternoons. Jack had the entire day off from work and usually slept in and waited for Rose to finish her shift by the early afternoon, when the Hearth Cafe finally closed its doors early for the day of rest. After Rose washed and changed into a freshly ironed dress, they spent the afternoon in the park, for once forgetting their responsibilities and exhaustion. Knowing it was her favorite dessert, Jack always ignored her protests and bought Rose ice cream from a vendor.

"What flavor do you want?" he asked the first time.

"No, Jack, it's too much. Ice cream isn't in our food budget."

"Uh huh. What flavor, Rose?"

"No, no ice cream."

"What do you have again?" he asked the vendor.

"Jack, stop, I don't need ice cream."

"You love ice cream. Do you want strawberry? Caramel? Maple nut? Do you like nuts?"

"I don't want ice cream."

"I didn't ask you if you wanted any. I asked if you like nuts."

"Jack, I don't need it."

"Nuts, Rose. Do you like them?"

"No ice cream."

"Nuts."

"Yes."

"What?"

"I like nuts, Jack."

"Alright. Do you like maple?" he asked her.

"Can I have caramel ice cream with nuts?"

"Of course. Do you want a waffle cone?"

"Does a cone cost more than a cup?

"That wasn't the question. Do you want a waffle cone, Rose?"

"Yes, please."

"I'll take two scoops of caramel ice cream, with extra nuts, in a cone, please," he told the vendor.

"Thank you, Jack."

"Any time."

Rose took the cone from the vendor with a smile, then looked over at Jack. "Don't you want any?"

"No, I don't like ice cream. Gives me a brain freeze."

Aside from strolling along the flower paths or simply lying in the grass with Jack, Rose also enjoyed these afternoons because she usually came across a Sunday newspaper that had been read, then carelessly tossed aside by its owner. Newspapers were always Rose's secret love, a fancy her mother frowned upon but her father indulged, often taking the financial section for himself and handing her the rest of the paper in the mornings. After his death she'd sneak extra change to Trudy and ask her maid to bring back a paper every once in a while. Cal had caught her skimming the front page headlines a number of times and guffawed.

"Why do you trouble yourself with these issues that don't concern you?" he'd asked.

"They concern me as much as they do you."

"How so?"

"I'm a member of this community, just like you. I should know what's happening in the world around me, just like you."

"Is that so?" He asked, arching an eyebrow and indicating that he decisively DIDN'T think that she was a citizen on equal footing with him and should know what was happening in the world around her.

Jack, however, loved his wife's interest, often asking her to read the more interesting articles aloud.

It was on one such careless, indulgent Sunday afternoon in late summer that Rose stumbled upon something disconcerting.

"What is it?" Jack asked, feeling Rose tense and looking over to see her worried expression.

"Nothing."

"Are you sure?"

"Well . . . it's a wedding announcement."

"Do you know the people?"

Rose shakes the head, not to deny his question, but to shake herself free from the feeling of unease. "No . . . it's that . . . I didn't expect to see his face again," she answers, unable to tear her eyes away from the grainy photograph of Cal and his new bride.


End file.
